Forgive Me My Sins, page 1
Forgive Me My Sins
An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
The Augustine Brothers
Book 1
Natasha Knight
Copyright © 2023 by Natasha Knight
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover by Coverluv
Photo by Wander Aguiar
Model Andrew Biernat
Contents
Prologue
1. Santos
2. Madelena
3. Santos
4. Madelena
5. Santos
6. Santos
7. Madelena
8. Santos
9. Madelena
10. Santos
11. Madelena
12. Madelena
13. Santos
14. Madelena
15. Santos
16. Madelena
17. Santos
18. Madelena
19. Santos
20. Madelena
21. Madelena
22. Santos
23. Madelena
24. Santos
25. Madelena
26. Santos
27. Madelena
28. Madelena
29. Santos
30. Santos
31. Madelena
32. Madelena
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Also by Natasha Knight
About the Author
Prologue
Madelena
Present Day
* * *
“Forgive me.”
They were the first words he spoke to me. I can still hear them, still see the look in his eyes as he took my hand and said them. I couldn’t turn away from him.
Not until I saw the flash of the blade he produced out of nowhere.
I blink, and the room comes into focus. I open my hand to trace the thin scar across my palm, the raised flesh bumpy. Does his match mine?
The surprise of it had shocked me at first, then the pain. The latter should have been familiar, but strangely, it wasn’t. It depends on who’s holding the knife, I guess.
A key turning in the lock on my door disrupts my thoughts and draws me into the present. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, dark hair around a too-pale face and eyes lined heavily with black. Little Kitty, he calls me. It sounds almost tender, but it’s not. It’s his mockery of me.
I don’t have time to think about it as Sister Catherine opens the door, the key dangling from a chain at her belt. She never has bothered to knock. I brush my hair and watch her in the mirror as she surveys the room. My bags are packed, and I’m sure she can’t wait to be rid of me.
Behind her, Mr. Abbot, the groundskeeper, stands in the doorway.
“Take it all down,” she tells him sharply. “Load it into the car.”
My heart thuds against my chest because it’s time. This is it.
“Not that one,” I say, pointing to the oversized, still-unzipped tote on the bed. It’s the one with the things I actually care about.
Mr. Abbot looks to Sister Catherine, who shrugs and approaches me. She takes the brush from my hand and stands directly behind me at the vanity. I watch Mr. Abbot sling my duffel bag over his shoulder and lift the two suitcases. They have wheels, but he carries them anyway.
“Goodbye, Mr. Abbot,” I call out. He pauses at the door and glances at Sister Catherine, who tugs too hard on my hair. He gives me a small but warm smile.
He was always kind to me.
The door closes, and I look up at Sister Catherine’s pursed face. It’s not quite resting bitch face—more of a forever-constipated face. I mentioned once they have things you can buy over the counter for that. She did not appreciate it. Remembering the moment makes me smile.
“We should have had this cut,” she says, tugging the brush through.
“Too late,” I say with a smirk. She’s made sure I knew exactly what a burden I was from day one. Exactly what she thought of my kind, as she put it, and I always reminded her how easily she took money from my kind.
My kind being my fiancé, the heir to a crime family. This was where the Augustine protection had come in handy. She had limited power over me. I could say what I wanted to say, and all she could do was lock me in my room and deprive me of dinner as punishment. Yes, she’d made the last two years of my life as hellish as she could, but she couldn’t really touch me. I’ve survived worse than her.
I wince as she tugs and pulls, but I bear it. My eyes fill up, but I don’t let a single tear fall.
“You’ll do well to remember to keep your mouth shut with your husband.”
“He’s not my husband yet,” I say, earning another tug. I turn the diamond ring on my finger, trying to keep my face neutral, trying not to show how anxious I feel—how much I dread what’s to come. Because it’s only a matter of time until he is my husband, and there’s no way out of it.
She puts the brush down and sets her hands at her back.“Stand up.”
I glimpse the thin leather strap that hangs from her belt, which is another thing I was protected from. I’ve seen what she’s capable of doing with that strap.
I stand, turning to face her. I’m taller than her, and she doesn’t much like it.
She looks me over, and I want to ask her why she hates me. Why she hasn’t helped me once or offered even the smallest comfort. It’s not like I chose this, or like I can stop it.
No one can.
Because five years ago, I was promised to Santos Augustine. We signed the contract in blood, mine and his, while our families watched.
I touch my thumb to the scar as Sister Catherine’s hard gaze meets mine. I press my fingernail into it, the pain grounding me.
She looks me over, likely making sure I’m wearing the dress I’ve been told to wear. I am. She nods and turns to walk out. “Come.”
I put my brush into the bag on the bed and zip it, slinging it over my shoulder then following her out of the room that’s been my prison and my sanctuary for the last two years. I don’t look back. I can’t.
Because today is the day that contract we signed is fulfilled. No one—not my father, not my brother, not even fucking God can stop what is about to happen. Because Santos Augustine is God, and he made clear five years ago and at every opportunity leading to this day, that I belong to him.
1
Santos
5 Years Earlier
* * *
Marnix De Léon is a fucking coward, and it turns my stomach to have to look at him. In contrast, my father stands tall and proud. To anyone not present in this room, you’d expect the opposite—De Léon with his head held high, with my father’s bowed low, face in shadows. I’m not sure you’d expect the Augustines and the De Léons in the same room at all, actually. Not as equals anyway, but here we are.
The Augustines have returned from exile, patriarchs of each family present and accompanied by attorneys, as if the transaction we’re carrying out is in any way legal.
The next generation is here too. My brother, Caius. Me. De Léon’s son, Odin. No women, though. They’re not necessary for this part. Not yet.
Even then, we only need the one—although she’s not quite a woman yet. That’s the part that bothers me. It makes me lose sleep at night, but I know what I have to do, what role I’m meant to play.
And she will be a woman soon enough.
“Santos.” My father calls my name.
I shift my gaze past Caius to him. Should Caius be the one named on that contract? He would be if it hadn’t been for me. My father adopted Caius when he married our mother. I am not first born, but I am blood-born. Caius stands like a statue, hands folded in front of him and face as unreadable as ever as I proceed toward the older men. I wonder what my brother is thinking. Would he want this if it was his to take? If she was his to take? Spoils of war.
“Father,” I say.
De Léon’s irritated gaze follows me as I step up to the desk. You’d never know looking at him that he buried his brother-in-law today.
I don’t bother acknowledging him. He fucked up. Overreached. This is the consequence of thinking too highly of oneself, believing oneself untouchable. No one is untouchable.
De Léon turns the fountain pen over to me. I see where the ink of his signature is drying, smeared where the crease of his fist had rubbed against it. He signed with a flair I’m not surprised to see. He’s arrogant. We’ve always known that about Marnix De Léon. That arrogance has led to his downfall.
I meet De Léon’s flat eyes, which are colorless and washed out. I glance to my father, who gives me a victorious smile. I don’t take the pen. “Where is your daughter?” I ask De Léon.
“She is unnecessary. I decide for her.”
Is he trying to protect her, I wonder? Fatherly love? No, that’s not it. I know enough about the family to be certain of that fact.
The corners of my mouth lift into what I don’t think anyone would call a smile. “You don’t decide anything,” I remind him. He used to, but times have changed.
He gestures to o
“No need,” he says.
I turn to him. Odin is about eighteen now, three years older than his sister, Madelena. He’s almost as tall as me but thin, like he hasn’t quite grown into his height yet. He takes another step. I notice the limp, the tightening of his lips. Pain. Was he limping before tonight? I don’t recall.
“She’ll do as she’s told when the time comes,” he says.
“Get out of the way, boy,” the older De Léon says, but Odin doesn’t. He draws himself to his full height and, still blocking the door, looks at me—not his father.
“It’s been a hard day for her,” he says in an appeal to protect his sister.
I study him. No love lost between father and son, but he does love his sister. Noted.
“She was very close to our uncle,” he adds.
My gut tightens. I knew she was close to him. So was Odin. Their uncle was the last link to their mother. If there was any other way to do this, I would do it. The girl is fifteen, and I’m not that much of a monster. “It can’t be helped,” I tell him, because it can’t.
“Boy,” the father warns, making a move to come around the desk.
Odin sets his jaw. “No.”
I open my mouth, but before I get a chance to speak, the door opens. We all turn to find Madelena De Léon standing like she’d had her ear to the door all along. Her hair is wet, and she’s wearing different clothes than she’d worn to the funeral. She looks like she’s been crying for days. She glares at her father, then, without any hesitation, she shifts her gaze to me and holds mine. And I know in that instant, in the look in those eyes, that this girl will not bow meekly and do as she’s told. Not now. Not ever.
Odin steps toward her. “Maddy,” he says through his teeth. “I told you not to come down here.”
He’s protective of her. I would be the same if I had a sister—and there’s no way in hell I’d let her sign a contract like the one Madelena will be made to sign tonight.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she tells her brother.
I watch the two of them together. I know what she looks like. I’ve seen her before, although not often. Where we used to be the scum of Avarice, now Augustines and De Léons socialize in the same circles. Who’d have thought it? But all it took was one fuck-up. It had been inevitable. We only had to be patient. Because Marnix De Léon fucked up big. I know the cost of that sort of mistake well and he will pay.
She takes in the room while I take her in. Dark hair, sad eyes. Anger. Just behind it, there’s fear. I see it, smell it, even as she tries to mask it. But it would be stranger if she wasn’t scared. Standing in a room with the Augustine family can be a frightening experience, especially when you’re a De Léon. But like I said, I’m not a monster. And she is fifteen.
I hold out my hand, palm up, and beckon her with a curl of my fingers. No need to drag this out.
Odin takes hold of her wrist, but she looks up at him. A silent communication passes between them before she shakes her head and frees herself. I notice she’s barefoot when she steps toward me. It stands out, that little detail. The vulnerability of her pale feet. The vulnerability of her.
When I look back up, she’s near enough to take my hand. She studies it. This close in the dim light, I see the remnants of eyeliner hastily wiped away, the smudges of black on one temple. Finally, when she shifts her gaze up to mine, and I see the pain inside her copper eyes, I decide something. It’s not a conscious thought, but it’s decided all the same.
Her father should protect her. It’s the way it should be. But sometimes fathers don’t protect daughters. I know that well. Even though I will do what I am about to do, I decide that where her father has failed her, I will not.
She blinks, as if this thought, this oath hanging on the one we are about to make, has somehow communicated itself to her. As if the weight of it, of my protection, has been draped like a cloak over her too narrow, too delicate shoulders.
I gesture once more for her to give me her hand. Our eyes remain connected as she slips it into mine.
Her skin is cold to the touch, and I don’t miss the slight tremble of her small hand in mine. I hate that I have to do what I have to do.
My father clears his throat. There is no way around it, and she will survive. Hell, she has survived being a De Léon this long, I tell myself. She’s been through worse.
She walks at my side as we take the final steps to the desk together. There’s slight resistance, but she, too, knows that neither of us have a choice.
“Forgive me,” I tell her quietly. Her forehead creases in confusion, but before she can see what is coming—before she can be afraid—I slip the switchblade from my pocket, snap it open and slice a line into the palm of her hand.
She cries out and tries to pull free as tears fill her eyes. I hold her hand over the contract and, using the same knife, slice my own palm so that our blood drops in unison onto the sheets of heavy parchment.
“Blood joins blood,” my father says as I smear our thumbs through the deep red, hers and mine. I take the handkerchief from my breast pocket and press it into her palm. I’m not sure if her gaze is on the blood or the ring on my finger bearing the Augustine insignia.
Keeping hold of her hand to staunch the bleeding, I step away from the desk, taking her with me. We watch the two witnesses, one from each family, sign their names to the contract before our attorney applies the final seal. Once that is finished, my father stands back and, with that victorious smile playing on his lips, he looks at us. At me, at her, at Caius and finally at De Léon, his forever enemy. “It is done,” he declares.
I turn to the girl who is wiping tears from her face with her free hand.
“You belong to me now. Do you understand?” I tell her in a low voice so only she can hear.
She wrinkles her forehead, her lips trembling as she draws a breath.
“Do you understand?” I repeat.
She nods once.
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
The instant I release her, she runs from the room. I wipe the blood off my hand with a handkerchief Caius hands me as our attorneys collect the contract, briefcases snapping shut. My father gives me an approving nod and leads the way out. Our footsteps echo as we make our way toward the front door of the De Léon mansion, but before we reach it, something draws my gaze. It’s an irresistible pull and when I glance over my shoulder, I see Madelena standing at the top of the stairs, nursing her bleeding hand. Her eyes are locked on me and if looks could kill, I’d be dead.
I give her an infinitesimal nod and I swear her eyes narrow.
At least she’ll be safe for now. From me, for the next five years. From my family. From her own. Trading the house of one monster for the house of another.
But destiny is destiny. Fate is fate.
The Augustines have waited a long time for the scales to be leveled… for fate to finally give us our due. Each of us must fulfill our part as it is written—whether we like it or not.
Madelena De Léon’s destiny is sealed. She is to pay what is due.
And my destiny is clear. I am to ensure that payment is collected in full. No matter the cost.
2
Madelena
I watch the bastards walk out of the study. Odin told me to stay in my room, but it’s not like that would have changed anything. I knew what my father had agreed to in order to save his neck. I’m pretty good at being invisible, lurking in shadows and listening. It’s easy with my father because he wishes I was invisible. Wishes I’d never been born.
